


Goodwill Toward Men

by Wolfsbride



Category: Three Musketeers (2011)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-08
Updated: 2012-03-08
Packaged: 2017-11-01 16:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/358777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfsbride/pseuds/Wolfsbride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>D'Artagnan spies and Porthos lends a hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Goodwill Toward Men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RimauSuaLay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RimauSuaLay/gifts).



D’Artagnan hadn’t heard what Aramis whispered to Porthos but he could well imagine. Keep the kid busy. Well, he’d slipped away from Porthos and was on his way back to that room. That place where they’d found Athos.

His breath quickened as he hurried along. Poor Athos had been in pain but so beautiful in his agony. He felt a moments self-disgust at taking pleasure in his friend’s suffering. It was hard not to though. Athos’ lean body stretched across the altar was a sight to behold even in the dreadful circumstance. The way his muscles had flexed as the poison worked its way through him made D’Artagnan shiver.

D’Artagnan had almost reached the door to the chamber when he paused. Shame nearly made him turn back but he was curious. Just because he was young didn’t mean he was stupid. He knew there were things men did to and with each other. One heard whispers. He just wanted... 

He wanted. That was the problem. 

Shaking his head, he stepped closer. His heart thudded in his chest. Through the door he could make out Athos’ voice – begging, desperate. He’d never thought to hear Athos so out of control. What manner of poison was this that it could so strip a man of his restraint? 

Below Athos’ keening, Aramis’ low voice rumbled. His hand reached for the knob of the door but he stopped. Aramis was sure to have locked it. Even if he hadn’t, the noise of the door opening, even a crack, might alert the two men inside. 

Though he doubted it. Not given the noise coming from within. Sucking in a breath, D’Artagnan let his head rest against the solid wood of the door. It sounded like animals fighting. The smack of two bodies coming together assaulted his ears. 

Without looking he was left with his own imagination. It was easy enough. He’d caught glimpses of all his compatriots at different times when the luxury of a room in an inn was scare. Bathing in a river or stream was little to pay for being clean. 

He wasn’t sure if he was glad for those furtive peeks or not. It meant he could visualize the long slope of Aramis’ back as he leaned over Athos. Holding him down as he thrust into his body. It would have to be Aramis; he didn’t think Athos had any reasoning left to accomplish the deed.

His hand moved to press against the front of his breeches. _His hand moved_. D’Artagnan snorted. As if he wasn’t controlling it. If he was going to listen in on his friends, at least he could be a man about it and admit his motives. 

A cry made his hips twitch. He pressed harder. Which wouldn’t solve anything but at least he wasn’t actively participating. This was insane. _He_ was insane.

He should leave. Leave before Porthos marshaled against the wine and came to look for him. He couldn’t imagine what would happen, but he was sure it would involve him dying of embarrassment. He should. But he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead he turned his head so that his ear was closer to the door. The sound of flesh against flesh was augmented by the gasping, grunting, groaning of the two men involved. Athos was still begging, lower pitched but just as urgent. 

_More. Please. Harder._

There was a pause, then the movement of bodies shifting. D’Artagnan’s mind filled in the blanks. Aramis pushing Athos’ legs wider, pulling his hips up. A long drawn out moan made him picture Aramis slowly pushing his way back into Athos’s body. When the slapping noises started up again, D’Artagnan weakly thumped a fist on the door before giving up, giving in. 

Dropping one hand from the door, he raised the other to his mouth and yanked his glove off. Shoving it into his belt, he fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. His moan joined the other noises as he curled his fingers around his hardened cock. 

His breathing hitched as he stroked himself roughly. He’d regret it later, having nothing to ease his way, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He fell into the rhythm of the two men rutting so close by, strokes speeding and slowing as they dictated. 

He braced himself, hips lurching as he dragged his thumb over the head of his cock. There was a thump inside the room, followed by muttered cursing. Aramis then – Athos was reduced to babbling, nonsensical words, phrases, all pouring out of him in a steady stream. 

D’Artagnan’s eyes drifted close as he rubbed his swollen flesh. Would they be slick with sweat? He could see it. Dark hair plastered across both brows. Athos, open mouthed, tongue flickering as he rambled, staring up at Aramis with a glazed look. Aramis gazing down at him with that intent look he got when he was truly focused. 

He whined as he twisted his palm. How long had they been at it? The noises were making him crazy, but he wanted to hear them finish. He wasn’t certain he could wait.

Whenever he’d touched himself like this, he’d rushed to the end. It felt too good not to. It was torture to go at someone else’s pace. Even though they sounded frantic, they’d already been at it longer than he ever did. 

It was no good. He wasn’t going to make it. He could already feel the telltale curl of tension coiling through him. He sucked in a breath, tried to slow down, but his hand and his hips; he seemed to have no control over them now. He was rising up on his toes, hips jerking and cock swelling in anticipation, when a gloved hand closed over his and a voice whispered above his head.

“That was very sneaky, lad.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes snapped open. Oh God. Porthos. He didn’t dare look up.

It was as he thought. He wanted to _die_! 

His hand fell away and his brain scrambled for non-existent excuses. Strangely enough, his body continued toward its peak. His cock flexed and suddenly, he didn’t want to just die; he wanted to be wiped from existence. He would never be able to look any of them in the eye ever again. How could he have thought it was a good idea to spy? Truly, he must have been mad.

“Now. Now. None of that. Not yet, anyway.” Porthos’ voice was heavy with amusement. 

D’Artagnan couldn’t help arching when Porthos’ gloved hand tightened around his cock, holding him firm. The leather was cool against his flushed skin. _Oh my God_.

He hadn’t known you could touch without bared hands. His head pressed tightly against Porthos’ chest; his eyes squeezed shut. 

“Oh God. Please.” Now he was the one begging.

“Oh, I think not. That was a mean trick you played. Trying to get me drunk. Really, lad.” 

D’Artagnan shifted. “I’m sorry.” He whispered. “Ple... AH!” He shoved a fist into his mouth. Porthos had flicked the taut head of his cock with his thumb.

“Hm. We’ll see how sorry you are.” 

D’Artagnan could feel the warmth of Porthos’ body as he stepped nearer, pressing them together. He could also feel the length of Porthos’ cock pushing into his back. His own throbbed in response.

He gasped as the taller man caged him, putting his other arm around his body and reaching into his breeches to cup his balls. Fire raced along his nerves. “Oh God. Oh God.” He chanted

He’d never thought to touch himself there. The two points of sensation were astounding. 

“My name is Porthos.” Behind him, Porthos leaned in even closer, words rumbling in his chest. “Say it.”

“Oh God! Please, Porthos! _Please_.”

Porthos loosened his hold and slid his hand from root to tip and back down again. D’Artagnan slapped his hand over his mouth again as he cried out. His hips snapped up and it was _so_ much better. The leather of Porthos’ glove was slick with his fluids and his cock slid smoothly, rapidly, as he thrust into Porthos’ grip.

But it wasn’t just his cock. If he’d known how good it felt to touch his balls, he wouldn’t have ignored them for so long. The way Porthos gently rolled and fondled them was making his head spin. 

Slumping forward, D’Artagnan pressed his forehead against the door again. His eyelids fluttered and he found himself staring down at his cock engulfed by Porthos' broad hand. The sight of it stole his breath away. 

Before his mind could run away with thoughts of Porthos’ hands, a loud wail reminded why he’d been here in the first place. Aramis and Athos were in a fever pitch. He could sympathize. He felt like he was going to burst into flames any minute now. 

“Such a pretty lad. No patience though. Always in a rush.” Porthos’ voice was calm, like he was discussing tactics. 

D’Artagnan didn’t need to see Porthos to picture the wicked smile the older man would be wearing. Tears sprung to his eyes as Porthos’ fist clutched him tightly again. 

_”Porthossss!_

Porthos laughed. “I like that. Keep saying my name just like that.”

D’Artagnan swore and tried to move but Porthos tugged on his balls to remind him who had both upper hands. 

“What… What do you want?” He managed to choke out. 

Porthos hummed. “Peace on earth? Goodwill toward men?” 

D’Artagnan opened his mouth to curse his friend but just then Porthos rubbed his thumb along the fringe where D’Artagnan’s foreskin was tightly tucked below the head of his cock and he had to bite down on his hand to keep the shout inside.

“Oh God.” He groaned when he’d got his breath back. “Hands. You have huge hands.” It was obvious of course. How else could Porthos keep torturing the tip of his cock and still hold him well enough to keep him in check. It definitely wasn’t because he was _small_.

More laughter and D’Artagnan could feel it reverberating, vibrating along his spine. It made him feel close to Porthos in a way he’d never envisioned. Slouched together like this, Porthos was near enough that D’Artagnan turned his head and rubbed his cheek against Porthos’ shoulder. 

“Please, Porthos! Do _something!_ ” 

“Oh, I’ll do something, alright, you little brat. If you were mine, I’d keep you like this for hours.” Porthos dipped lower, moving so that his mouth brushed against the curve of D’Artagnan’s ear. “Would you like that? To be sprawled across my bed? My hands the only thing between you and ecstasy?”

He was wrong. He was going to die after all. He was going to die with Porthos’ resonant voice in his ear. Speaking evil, wonderful things. 

D’Artagnan moaned. It was all he could do. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t finish. Begging didn’t seem to work. 

It hurt. He hadn’t known it could. He’d never had to wait before. And as much as he wanted to thrust into Porthos’ hand until it was over, part of him wanted that – wanted what those words conjured. His cock swelled in spite of Porthos’ grip. 

“Oh ho! Is that the way of it, then? Later, perhaps. We’ll have to see.”

Then Porthos pressed his fingers tightly up against his balls and dragged a thumb just below the head of his cock. D’Artagnan’s eyes slammed shut and stars burst behind his closed eyelids. He bit through his lip to stifle his scream and his hips stuttered while his cock spasmed. Gasping, D’Artagnan opened his eyes in time to see milky whiteness pearling starkly across the black leather of Porthos’ glove covered hand. 

Porthos’ guided him back down to earth, strokes gradually slowing until they both stood quietly in front of the chamber door. D’Artagnan sagged back against Porthos, blearily allowing him the right to tuck him back into his breeches. A nudge from Porthos had him upright and swaying and he mourned the loss of the heat along his back as Porthos moved away from him.

Flushing, D’Artagnan turned, determined to look nowhere but the floor. On the way down, however, his gaze passed over the front of Porthos’ breeches. It was hard to miss how stretched they were. 

He swallowed, remembering that moments ago that part of Porthos was pressed intimately against him. He remembered too what Porthos had said about keeping in his bed. He wondered if he meant it.

“D’Artagnan.”

It was a reflex. He didn’t mean to look. His head snapped up and his eyes widened as he watched Porthos lick his fluid from his gloved hand. Inexplicably, his mouth watered and a faint noise escaped him. 

Porthos smiled and reached for him. As he was gently pulled away; he heard both Aramis and Athos cry out, their pleasure as great as his own.


End file.
